


Tuesday

by Jenwryn



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-05
Updated: 2010-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 13:08:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Don't get any ideas,' she says. 'This isn't going to become a Thing.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in March 2010.
> 
> Doesn't have an exact setting, but I feel it's somewhere after the end of _BtVS_ , presumably taking into account some _Angel_ canon. Yep.

It's Tuesday, the first time she stays all the way until the evening; sleeping on his schedule. She's woken in his bed before – on his easy-chair – in his arms – with her face resting against the wall of his crypt – but those times were not like this. Those times were followed by restless silences, by the rustle of her pulling her things back on and going to uni, or her part-time job; by that look on her face, the one that has always correctly accused him of nuzzling against her skin to inhale a scent that is hers, but echoes that of another.

But today, today it's a Tuesday, and she wakes with her hair in her eyes, and she looks at him warningly, before he's even really finished waking himself, as though she's simply daring him to utter so much as a single word. He doesn't speak a word, either, because he loves the way her eyes blink slowly, and because he isn't half so big a twat as she acts like she thinks he is. Still, he's himself, so he might not speak, but he does grin as he stretches beside her, enjoying the feel of the motion, and he does lean in and down and exhale over the curve of her breast – it's not as though he can't breathe when he wants to, and he does want to, because it's a Tuesday, and she's here, here, like this.

"Don't get any ideas," she says, squirming with kitten-contentment as his hand rubs at her hip (just because he can; just because he wants to), "this isn't going to become a Thing."

He doesn't argue with that, because it's a lie. Because it already has become exactly that. Because it's a Tuesday; an innocuous, fuck-ordinary Tuesday, and there are creases on her body from his sheets, and there is the taste of him on her skin, and she isn't leaving, she isn't moody, she's simply yawning and stretching, and shivering, as he slides himself slower and murmurs all his secrets to the softness of her thighs.

She isn't what he used to dream of. She isn't Buffy. She isn't Buffy, no, but she isn't trying to be. And something about her, something about her has taught him not to think in the context of eternity any more – perhaps because she's lived it, even more than he has, whether she can remember it or not. Perhaps because her scent is so like the one he loved, yet she looks at him in a way he'd never expected.

Perhaps because it's a Tuesday, and her comb is on his dresser, and her socks are on his floor, and she smells of him, now, instead of the echoes of a slayer even they can barely speak of.

Perhaps because because it's a Tuesday, and she's his.

Or perhaps, perhaps, as she raises her hips to meet his mouth – as she stretches her hands across white cotton – as she breathes out his name in the wake of a sunshine-coloured laugh – perhaps it's because it's a Tuesday, and she's _hers_.


End file.
